An Ember in the Ashes
Page 72
When the fiddles warbled and the drums thumped, he grabbed Nan and paraded her around the dance stages until she was breathless with laughter.
This year’s festival is packed, but remembering Darin, I feel wrenchingly alone. I’ve never thought about all the empty spaces at the Moon Festival, all the places where the disappeared, the dead, and the lost should be. What’s happening to my brother in prison while I stand in this joyful crowd? How can I smile or laugh when I know he’s suffering?
I glance at Izzi, at the wonder and joy on her face, and sigh, pushing away the dark thoughts for her sake. There must be other people here who feel as lonely as I do. Yet no one frowns, or cries, or sulks. They all find reason to smile and laugh. Reason to hope.
I spot one of Pop’s former patients and make a sharp turn away from her, pulling my scarf back up to shadow my face. The crowd is thick, and it will be easy to lose anyone familiar in the throng, but it’s better if I go unrecognized.
“Laia.” Izzi’s voice is small, her touch light on my arm. “Now what do we do?”
“Whatever we want,” I say. “Someone is supposed to find me. Until he does, we watch, dance, eat. We blend in.” I eye a nearby cart, manned by a laughing couple and surrounded by a mob of outstretched hands.
“Izzi, have you ever tasted a moon cake?”
I cut through the crowd, emerging minutes later with two hot moon cakes dripping with chilled cream. Izzi takes a slow bite, closes her eye, and smiles.
We wander to the dance stages, filled with pairs: husbands and wives, fathers and daughters, siblings, friends. I shed the slave’s shuffle I’ve adopted and walk the way I used to, my head straight and my shoulders thrown back.
Beneath my dress, my wound stings, but I ignore it.
Izzi finishes off the last of her moon cake and stares at mine so intently that I hand it over. We find a bench and watch the dancers for a few minutes until Izzi nudges me.
“You have an admirer.” She gobbles up the last bite of cake. “By the musicians.”
I look over, thinking it must be Keenan, but instead see a young man with a somewhat bemused expression on his face. He seems distantly familiar.
“Do you know him?” Izzi asks.
“No,” I say after considering for a few moments. “I don’t think so.”
The young man is tall as a Martial, with broad shoulders and sun-gold arms that gleam in the lantern-light. The hard lines of his stomach are visible beneath his hooded vest, even from this distance. The black strap of a pack cuts diagonally across his chest. Though his hood is up, shadowing much of his face, I see high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips. His features are arresting, almost Illustrian, but his clothes and the dark shine of his eyes mark him as a Tribesman.
Izzi watches the boy, studying him, almost. “Are you sure you don’t know him? Because he definitely seems to know you.”
“No, I’ve never seen him before.” The boy and I lock eyes, and when he smiles, blood rushes to my cheeks. I look away, but the draw of his stare is powerful, and a moment later, my gaze creeps back. He’s still looking at me, arms folded across his chest.
A second later I feel a hand on my shoulder and smell cedar and wind.
“Laia.” The beautiful boy by the stage is forgotten as I turn to Keenan. I take in his dark eyes and red hair, not realizing that he’s staring back until a few seconds have passed and he clears his throat.
Izzi slips a few feet away, eyeing Keenan with interest. I told her that when the Resistance showed up, she was to act like she didn’t know me. Somehow, I don’t think they will appreciate that a fellow slave knows all about my mission.
“Come on,” Keenan says, weaving past the dance stages and between two tents. I follow, and Izzi trails us, discreetly and at a distance.
“You found your way,” he adds.
“It was...simple enough.”
“I doubt that. But you managed it. Well done. You look...” His eyes search my face and then travel down my body. Such a look from another man would merit a slap, but from Keenan, it’s more tribute than insult. There is something different about his usually aloof features—surprise? Admiration?
When I smile tentatively at him, he gives his head a slight shake, as if clearing it. “Is Sana here?” I ask.
“She’s at base.” His shoulders are tense, and I can tell he’s troubled. “She wanted to see you herself, but Mazen didn’t want her to come. They had quite a battle over it. Her faction’s been pushing for Mazen to get Darin out.
But Mazen...” He clears his throat and, as if he’s said too much, nods tersely to a tent ahead of us. “Let’s head around back.”
A white-haired Tribal woman sits in front of the tent, peering into a crystal ball as two Scholar girls wait to hear what she’ll say, their faces skeptical. On one side of her, a torch-juggler has amassed a large crowd, and on the other, a Tribal Kehanni spins her tales, her voice rising and swooping like a bird in flight.
“Hurry up.” Keenan’s sudden brusqueness startles me. “He’s waiting.”
When I enter the tent, Mazen stops speaking to the two men flanking him. I recognize them from the cave. They are his other lieutenants, closer to Keenan’s age than Mazen’s and possessed of the younger man’s taciturn coolness. I stand taller. I won’t be intimidated.
“Still in one piece,” Mazen says. “Impressive. What have you got for us?”
This year’s festival is packed, but remembering Darin, I feel wrenchingly alone. I’ve never thought about all the empty spaces at the Moon Festival, all the places where the disappeared, the dead, and the lost should be. What’s happening to my brother in prison while I stand in this joyful crowd? How can I smile or laugh when I know he’s suffering?
I glance at Izzi, at the wonder and joy on her face, and sigh, pushing away the dark thoughts for her sake. There must be other people here who feel as lonely as I do. Yet no one frowns, or cries, or sulks. They all find reason to smile and laugh. Reason to hope.
I spot one of Pop’s former patients and make a sharp turn away from her, pulling my scarf back up to shadow my face. The crowd is thick, and it will be easy to lose anyone familiar in the throng, but it’s better if I go unrecognized.
“Laia.” Izzi’s voice is small, her touch light on my arm. “Now what do we do?”
“Whatever we want,” I say. “Someone is supposed to find me. Until he does, we watch, dance, eat. We blend in.” I eye a nearby cart, manned by a laughing couple and surrounded by a mob of outstretched hands.
“Izzi, have you ever tasted a moon cake?”
I cut through the crowd, emerging minutes later with two hot moon cakes dripping with chilled cream. Izzi takes a slow bite, closes her eye, and smiles.
We wander to the dance stages, filled with pairs: husbands and wives, fathers and daughters, siblings, friends. I shed the slave’s shuffle I’ve adopted and walk the way I used to, my head straight and my shoulders thrown back.
Beneath my dress, my wound stings, but I ignore it.
Izzi finishes off the last of her moon cake and stares at mine so intently that I hand it over. We find a bench and watch the dancers for a few minutes until Izzi nudges me.
“You have an admirer.” She gobbles up the last bite of cake. “By the musicians.”
I look over, thinking it must be Keenan, but instead see a young man with a somewhat bemused expression on his face. He seems distantly familiar.
“Do you know him?” Izzi asks.
“No,” I say after considering for a few moments. “I don’t think so.”
The young man is tall as a Martial, with broad shoulders and sun-gold arms that gleam in the lantern-light. The hard lines of his stomach are visible beneath his hooded vest, even from this distance. The black strap of a pack cuts diagonally across his chest. Though his hood is up, shadowing much of his face, I see high cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips. His features are arresting, almost Illustrian, but his clothes and the dark shine of his eyes mark him as a Tribesman.
Izzi watches the boy, studying him, almost. “Are you sure you don’t know him? Because he definitely seems to know you.”
“No, I’ve never seen him before.” The boy and I lock eyes, and when he smiles, blood rushes to my cheeks. I look away, but the draw of his stare is powerful, and a moment later, my gaze creeps back. He’s still looking at me, arms folded across his chest.
A second later I feel a hand on my shoulder and smell cedar and wind.
“Laia.” The beautiful boy by the stage is forgotten as I turn to Keenan. I take in his dark eyes and red hair, not realizing that he’s staring back until a few seconds have passed and he clears his throat.
Izzi slips a few feet away, eyeing Keenan with interest. I told her that when the Resistance showed up, she was to act like she didn’t know me. Somehow, I don’t think they will appreciate that a fellow slave knows all about my mission.
“Come on,” Keenan says, weaving past the dance stages and between two tents. I follow, and Izzi trails us, discreetly and at a distance.
“You found your way,” he adds.
“It was...simple enough.”
“I doubt that. But you managed it. Well done. You look...” His eyes search my face and then travel down my body. Such a look from another man would merit a slap, but from Keenan, it’s more tribute than insult. There is something different about his usually aloof features—surprise? Admiration?
When I smile tentatively at him, he gives his head a slight shake, as if clearing it. “Is Sana here?” I ask.
“She’s at base.” His shoulders are tense, and I can tell he’s troubled. “She wanted to see you herself, but Mazen didn’t want her to come. They had quite a battle over it. Her faction’s been pushing for Mazen to get Darin out.
But Mazen...” He clears his throat and, as if he’s said too much, nods tersely to a tent ahead of us. “Let’s head around back.”
A white-haired Tribal woman sits in front of the tent, peering into a crystal ball as two Scholar girls wait to hear what she’ll say, their faces skeptical. On one side of her, a torch-juggler has amassed a large crowd, and on the other, a Tribal Kehanni spins her tales, her voice rising and swooping like a bird in flight.
“Hurry up.” Keenan’s sudden brusqueness startles me. “He’s waiting.”
When I enter the tent, Mazen stops speaking to the two men flanking him. I recognize them from the cave. They are his other lieutenants, closer to Keenan’s age than Mazen’s and possessed of the younger man’s taciturn coolness. I stand taller. I won’t be intimidated.
“Still in one piece,” Mazen says. “Impressive. What have you got for us?”
